Prompts:
-Central London, 1850s
-Lady Gaga
-Fake Blood
-Pair of broken glasses
The clouds billowed, angry and boding on a chilly day,
either from the smokestacks or from impending rain; no one was sure which was which
anymore. It lent a darkened lens to the carriage ride across Westminster
Bridge, where the detective sat, listening to the clock’s tick of the horse’s
hooves. The file resting on her lap, carefully purloined from the new
Metropolitan Police for half a schilling, contained nothing more than a cursory
inspection of the murder scene: blood, a pair of broken glasses, and just a
finger to be found of the body.
The victim was believed to be Archibald Smith, a baker whose
shop was placed right off Trafalgar Square. There was no sign of forced entry,
and all windows were locked from the inside. There was only one way in or out
of the room in which Mr. Smith was murdered, or so the report said; the
detective would have to see for herself. She snorted, and her associate, John
Radcliffe, broke his waking slumber.
“Something tickling you?” he sat back and pet his mustache.
“Only the continuous incompetencies of what we are supposed
to believe is a ‘police force’, Radcliffe,” responded the detective, rolling
her eyes at the folder. She held it out to Radcliffe. He took it. “Read the
last sentence.”
He pushed up his glasses and sat straight.
“From the positioning of the finger on the floor of the
crime scene, it is plain to see that whatever interloper made off with Mr.
Smith was in an eastward direction towards Holborn-”
The Detective uttered a sudden cackle.
“Sorry Radcliffe, continue.”
“-as indicated by the positioning of the bifocals nearby,
which were assuredly dislodged from Mr. Smith’s face in a struggle.”
Radcliffe pursed his lips and eyed the detective from over
his glasses.
“I see your doubts as to the direction of flight, but for
speculation based on little evidence, it is not incredulous.”
The detective smirked, conveying the usual sense of knowing
far more than Radcliffe could. Radcliffe knew the smirk all too well, and he
rolled his eyes.
“What do you know?”
She couldn’t hide behind a humble veneer, no matter how much
she tried.
“Patience, Radcliffe. I’m sure the constable will be
delighted to hear my take on the matter.”
The carriage rolled to bustling Trafalgar Square, filled
with music, laughter, and the day’s toils of those wishing they had a pastry,
and pulled in front of the bakery, where a bobby was stationed outside the
building.
“That’s five schill, love,” said the driver.
“Thank you Radcliffe,” the detective said, leaving before
Radcliffe could protest. He pulled out the money and paid the driver, and left
the cab just in time to spot the detective power past the flummoxed officer.
“Wait, ma’am! You can’t-”
Radcliffe tapped the officer on the shoulder.
“She usually does. I think she was born this way,” and he
strolled into the white brick building as well. Confection immediately filled
Radcliffe up to the brim, and his stomach reminded him that he had to watch the
baked goodies. The detective was dipping her finger into several of the treats
left out and tasting each, though she took time to inspect the various tools
left around the counter.
“Radcliffe, come, these are delectable. Beautiful, though
slightly dirty given the time they’ve been out, for, 2 days? Still rich,
however.”
“I will refrain, for the time being. Shall we proceed?”
The detective sighed.
“If you insist, Radcliffe, though I am in no hurry.”
They proceeded into the back room and up a set of stairs to
the loft. A curious mixture of rancid meat and sugar stung the nostrils, and
both the detective and Radcliffe covered their noses before entering the room.
“What the- what in the world is this? Who is this woman?”
yelled Constable Twickens, bristling at the sight of two interlopers in his
crime scene. The two other officers at his side were too shocked to speak.
“Not woman, Constable. Lady. Lady Gaga.”
Constable Twickens’ eyes went wide, and his beard turned a
whiter shade of gray.
“Dear Lady, my apologies! I had no idea-”
“No apology is necessary in my honor, Constable, though I
recommend you submit your apology to whomever appointed you as Constable.
Excuse me.” She walked past Constable Twickens to the middle of the
wood-paneled room. A pool of ruby spread out on the floor; a severed finger,
grayed and cut finely from the hand, lay closer to the door, and a pair of
bifocals lay even closer. Lady Gaga knelt down and bade Radcliffe to her side.
He knelt beside her.
“What do you notice, Radcliffe, as a doctor?”
Radcliffe’s dark, shimmering eyes went from the finger to
the blood.
“The blood’s still red.”
“Indeed.”
She went to her hands and knees and poked her nose as close
to the pool as possible. Constable Twickens recoiled in disgust.
“What in the world are you on about, Lady?”
Lady Gaga dragged her finger through the pool and stood,
holding the dripping finger out to Constable Twickens, who appeared ready to
forgo meals for a week.
“What in the world!”
“It’s not blood, which you would know, Constable, if you had
any notion of logic. In fact, it’s jam.” She shoved the finger in her mouth.
“Mm. Strawberry. Convincing, yes, due to the relatively low viscosity. And
Radcliffe, how does the severed finger look at its bone?”
Radcliffe pushed up his glasses and leaned towards the
finger, holding his nose.
“Smooth cut, very few indentations. Cut directly in the
joint between the intermediate phalange and the proximal phalange, from the
looks of it. Also, it looks to be several days old, Lady.”
Twickens scoffed and pushed away from Lady Gaga.
“And so what, Lady? There are many knives here-“
“Serrated, yes.”
“-or the suspect could have brought his own!”
Lady Gaga shrugged.
“That’s entirely possible. Not probable, mind you, but
possible. But, what is truly disconcerting about your utter lack of awareness
at this supposed ‘crime scene’ is the pair of glasses, my dear Constable.” She
bent over and picked them up while pulling a magnifying glass from a pocket in
her dress. “Not a single scuff or dent indicative of the glasses falling on
this-” she stomped her foot, “hard floor. The thin metal wiring should have
some sort of indenture, but there is nothing.”
She held out the glasses to him. The Constable crossed his
arms over his belly and took a few steps towards her, grunting and fighting
himself all the way. He took the glasses and peered at them.
“So what, Lady?” he grumbled. “This isn’t a murder scene?”
“No, Constable, this is not. I believe that Mr. Smith is
very much alive, and I intend to find him.”
“So you believe he faked his own death? Why?”
“The fame. Perhaps,” she said, “but I believe there’s much
more to this case than meets the eye. Come Radcliffe! The game is afoot.”
